This was some free writing from the we are three workshop I ran using three borrowed lines, I think I have excised them but will dig them out to check. Wrote solidly for five or so minutes using all the lines. I have been as ever scribbling away but editing has felt like moving through treacle and I have been doing my head in the sand thinking everything I write is awful routine so here is an unsteady draft of a workshop shop poem that has been hiding half typed for over a month on my computer. The thing I have realised is to keep going, keep scribbling even if it feels like nothing at all (mostly I have been journaling/diary writing for no one’s consumption) and then you will be able to get back into to the poetry and the editing. I will be sharing this tonight at Shaken stories and verse and feedback is welcome. https://www.facebook.com/events/638174216221380/?source=1 there is the event come share what you are working on for the last time this year.
P.S have just found another scrap of writing from this workshop will add it after the first poem in this post.
Grasp the fire of life in grass,
palpable warmth of photosynthesis
I promise you cannot feel alive
when all your feet know is concrete
even toes that are bent by ridiculous shoes,
can show you the way the sea meets the shore
sand reminds my feet how to bend
they are more useful there than pavements
Nothing is left to dig in tarmac and little to make trouble
Wrappers, life scraps and fox leaves ground to powder
in this too hot September, now an awareness
a sense of the weather spiralling,
and the city is challenging you to breathe filthy air
tell your lungs they have always felt this
the constriction deep in your chest
is your own created tension
not your body telling you you want out
dizzied by the sky scrapers after five years
cannot believe you live in a place
where so much shifting goes on in the sky line.
Palming the spindrift
pocketing the feeling for later
when I am saturated with rain
miserable in this other water
acidic nature of city rain unwelcome
the spindrift with its salt and whirling
becomes something other delighted in
you cannot pocket the spray
you only lick your palm later
there is this lashing of waves
and the sound of gull and shrieks
of outdoor laughter unrestrained.
Lungfuls of the seaweed you will take home
you feel with a proper course of treatment
you might become a puddle- splasher
a head-back tongue out lover of the rain
you would not need to go to the shadows.